


Wolf Like Me

by BibliophileOfLancaster



Category: The Last of Us (Video Games)
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, No Smut, No Spoilers, Recreational Drug Use, shrooms! but make them the drug kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:26:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28375395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BibliophileOfLancaster/pseuds/BibliophileOfLancaster
Summary: How it starts: Abby finds shrooms on the top shelf in a closet on a lazy Sunday afternoon.How it happens: Abby gets high in the aquarium.How it ends: Owen and Abby sort of navigate post-breakup feelings.
Relationships: Abby/Owen (The Last of Us), Mel/Owen (The Last of Us)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	Wolf Like Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is before the events of TLOU 2. I know people were a little confused on the timeline--honestly, no spoilers, but I ignored the events during the second game because they kinda limited my character options.

How it happens is: Abby finds them on the top shelf in a closet on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

She’s looking for—god, she doesn’t even remember, a gun holster or a box cutter or maybe nothing in particular, because that’s how things have gone lately, a byproduct of the new person she swears she’s become.

The New Abby is Old Abby plus purpose, plus time, plus a few near-death experiences, plus Owen, minus Fireflies. New Abby is not paranoid, silent, or unfeeling. New Abby is, as Owen puts it, allowed to be harmlessly curious, for fuck’s sake, and so New Abby does things like go looking in Owen’s closet in search of maybe-a-box-cutter and finds a glass jar high up on the top shelf.

Which, alright, ‘find’ is probably not the right word for it, because what she actually does is skim a hand over the shelf and discover the jar by knocking it off the edge.

Abby swears as she fumbles for it, hearing something rattling around within until she manages to grab it without it breaking.

She’s not really sure why she looks inside.

Abby’s still peering into the jar through the glass when Owen pokes his head into the doorway, presumably reacting to Abby’s earlier ah, fuck as she struggled not to drop something that would have shattered all over the floor.

“What’s up?” Owen asks conversationally. Abby glances up, guilty without really knowing why, a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar, and proceeds to handle the situation with the grace and eloquence she’s so widely renowned for.

This means she holds up the jar a little and blurts, “Uh…” and then sort of trails off with an uptick of a question.

Abby doesn’t expect Owen’s curious, amused expression as he glances at the jar and fixes Abby with a raised eyebrow and a grin.

“Shrooms,” he says, and then, when Abby just stares at him, adds, “mushrooms” like he’s talking to a child.

“I know _that_ ,” Abby says, maybe flushing a bit, because she _does_ , she’s not _that_ naïve, alright, she’s not blind. The mushrooms are dried but whole and—and very clearly _mushrooms_. Okay, so she wasn’t asking what they were.

She thinks maybe she was asking something more along the lines of _Why do you have these in your closet?_

Owen seems to see it on her face, and his grin widens as he laughs a little. “Manny gave ‘em to me a while back,” he says, shrugging.

“Oh,” Abby says, because what else is there to say? She’s curious, because of course he’s curious, the obvious question rattling around in her mind like the shrooms had in the jar. She’s still trying to reconcile New Abby with Old Abby and so she can’t make herself start asking questions. She realizes she’s still palming the jar, and she turns abruptly to put it back, reaching up to the top shelf and setting it down carefully.

“I’ve tripped a handful of times,” Owen offers while Abby’s back is still turned—because, god, he knows Abby better than Abby thinks she knows herself sometimes. Knows when Abby’s curious and when she’s disinterested and when she’s angry or confused or scared. Abby hasn’t admitted she’s thankful for it, not to Owen or to herself. “More often when I was younger, but once last year, couple times the year before that.”

Curiosity satisfied, Abby nods, finally leaving the closet. Owen bumps hips with her gently as he walks out, and Abby tries not to stiffen. Owen does this sometimes, reaches out with his tactile predilections like it’s nothing, like Abby’s allowed to have that with Owen, like Abby’s allowed to have anything besides a few awkwardly close encounters, like it’s not supposed to make her second guess everything. She’s still trying to get used to it. To figure out what it means.

(She knows what some of it means, like the look Owen gives her sometimes, the one that stops her breath in her throat, the one that’s like Owen knows every terrible thing Abby’s ever done and still wants to take her to bed.)

“Wanna try it sometime?” Owen asks, voice casual, and he’s shutting the closet door, not even looking at Abby. Maybe that’s intentional, maybe it’s not, but Abby appreciates the few seconds she gets to ponder the offer without being watched.

And it really is only a few seconds before she shakes her head and says, “Nah.” She isn’t foreign to being high, but it’s just not something that grabs her interest enough to accept.

And the whole thing is just as casual as any drug offer she’s ever experienced has been; Owen nods and says, “Cool,” they leave the room, and that’s the end of it.

* * *

That would be the end of it, except, as it turns out, Abby might be a little bit interested.

She hadn’t lied, alright—she really hadn’t been interested, had put the whole thing out of her mind pretty quickly, but the conversation with Owen had maybe planted a seed of intrigue within her. Maybe. Possibly. It might be a thing, currently, that she’s thinking about.

She doesn’t get obsessive about it; it’s not The Tell-Tale Heart with shrooms, but she’s thinking about it.

Because she’s got the time to. The thing about life in Seattle is that a lot of it is about waiting—for stakeouts to end, for meetings to begin, for your partner to show up, for Scars to bleed out—so Abby waits, and inevitably, she remembers the whole thing with Owen and the closet and the shrooms.

And maybe she starts thinking about what it might be like to trip.

So maybe she’s curious. That’s normal. Natural. Expected, even, maybe, given what she does to live and the people she has working relationships with.

So this is just a matter of professional curiosity. That’s it. It’s professional curiosity.

It’s professional curiosity that drives her to show up at Owen’s aquarium at nearly two in the morning after a solo job when she’s on the verge of a panic attack or brutal homicide or running to escape one of her sadly, pathetically regular bouts of crushing, crushing terror—at what she does for the Wolves, at what she’s capable of doing with her own hands. It’s a professional curiosity that makes her say in a breathless rush, when Owen answers the door, sleepy-eyed and confused, “I want to try it.”

It takes a few moments for Owen to seem to take in the sight of her and let her in. Abby doesn’t want to know what she looks like right now, just hopes to any listening deity that he doesn’t look as panicked and small as she feels.

But it’s useless to hope that, she knows, because Owen can look right through to the center of Abby like she’s made of cellophane, made of nothing but her thoughts and feelings, and so Owen’s expression goes concerned, goes gentle, and Abby fucking hates it.

“No,” Owen says.

Abby can’t process it immediately. “What?”

“No,” Owen says again, and he says it gently, calmly, but with a firmness Abby knows she won’t be able to break, and that’s not what she needs right now, it’s not, she needs to be gone, she needs to be less present, to let her mind be elsewhere, to stop overthinking, to stop dwelling.

She says as much, she thinks, or something along those lines, rushed out and stammering and please, _please_ , Owen, I need this, I need—

“Abs,” Owen says, and he says it like he’s been saying it for a while now. “Hey, _hey_ , easy, shh. Easy,” he hushes, like he’s calming a spooked horse, and somehow it works.

Abby can breathe, at least, can actually process Owen’s hands on her arms, holding her steady and still like an anchor but not restraining her.

“I’m sorry,” Abby chokes out. She wants to run. Every atom in her body is pleading, screaming at her to leave and possibly to never come back.

She lets Owen guide her to sit on the couch upstairs, the one positioned to look out over the pier.

Owen doesn’t ask her what’s wrong, or if something happened, or if she wants to talk about it. 

Abby’s so grateful she wants to cry.

“I can’t let you have it,” Owen says eventually into the echoing quiet of the aquarium.

Abby frowns automatically, tries not to bristle. “Why not?”

“It’s not going to help,” Owen says patiently. When Abby gives him a look, he raises his hands palms up. “I’m serious. You need to be in the right mindset before you do this. I’m not bullshitting you. You take it now, you’re gonna go on a bad trip. It’s gonna make you latch onto whatever you’re feeling and send you on—on some kind of panic-spiral of self-loathing and fear,” he says, with an air of someone who knows from experience. “You gotta be relaxed. Or happy. Or— Not this.”

Still, Abby tries to press it. “But—”

“You feel like you need something to calm you down, go knock on Mel’s door,” Owen says sharply, before he sighs and shakes his head. “But she’ll tell you the same thing I told you. I’m not giving any to you, Abby, okay, and that’s because I give a shit about you. But— Look, you can stay here, I don’t care. Whatever you want.”

All of Abby’s instincts are still urging her towards the door. She’s still right on the edge of a panic attack, and she’s frustrated, and her head’s so loud she doesn’t know what the hell to do with herself.

“You can stay here,” Owen says again, voice gentle, expression open, right hand resting near Abby’s shaking left one. “Alright? You don’t have to go.”

And so Abby doesn’t.

* * *

It passes.

It always does, even if it feels like it never will. The panic and the terror and the anxiety seep out of Abby’s bones, and by the end of the week, even the background hum of urgency fades out. Paranoia and panic-fueled fight-or-flight responses are what saved Old Abby’s life on a regular basis before the Wolves. With the Wolves, with New Abby, she doesn’t need that level of urgency to make it to the next day.

She’s still trying to learn how to make it stop happening, how to stop her brain from trying to save her from nothing.

It’s easier with Owen as an anchor. Abby’s starting to get that.

And so it passes, and work continues, and Abby goes to bed at night and gets up in the morning and breathes and eats and lives, and it’s another lazy afternoon at the aquarium when Owen says, “You could try it today. If you want to.”

Abby looks down from her appraisal of the aquarium display on the ceiling. There’s an odd sense of familiarity that comes with the arch of the whale. With a start, Abby realizes she’s…content. She’s good. Safe.

“Yeah?” she asks, tipping her head back to rest against the back of the couch as she considers it.

Owen shrugs, walking over to lean against the couch. “If you want. We’ve got nothing going on until tomorrow night. No pressure either way.”

“Nothing but training,” Abby says, smiling a little. She thinks about it. Training. Eventually, she nods. “Okay.”

“Really?” Owen asks, looking at her.

“Yeah,” she decides. “I’m up for it.”

And it’s as simple as that. Maybe it’s a sign as to how limited her drug-related experiences are, but Abby’s sort of expecting some pomp and circumstance, some metaphorical fireworks, a neon sign proclaiming his upcoming illicit drug usage. Something. Instead, Owen just nods, says, “Cool,” and disappears into the hall, returning with the glass jar. He grabs a little food scale—small, battery-powered, found in the kitchen of the aquarium—from downstairs and then sits back down, setting the jar and the scale down on the table in front of them. Abby edges closer, curious despite herself.

Owen grins at her a little. “Excited?” he asks, and maybe he’s teasing a bit, but Abby lets it slide, because, well. Yeah. She’s kind of excited.

Regardless, she doesn’t respond, just reaches over and opens the jar, and when Owen gives her a nod, she reaches in and plucks one of the mushrooms out and examines it while Owen starts setting up.

There’s still a part of him that’s halfway expecting it to look like the little white button cap mushrooms she used to see when tracking with her dad. Either those or the ones that grow over damned near everything now. This one is like neither of those. The one she holds now is long-stemmed and dark brown and nearly brittle-dry, so much so that it—

“Oh,” Abby says. The mushroom’s in two pieces in her hand, suddenly, and she sheepishly tips it back into the jar while Owen openly laughs at her.

Still, she’s comfortable and interested, and watches Owen measure out a portion with a thoughtful expression. He gives Abby a once-over, like he’s making up his mind about something, and takes away mushrooms until the scale reads about two grams. It looks like a lot, but, honestly, what the hell does she know?

“Gonna give you a dose on the smaller side just to be safe,” Owen says.

Abby is mildly alarmed. “That’s all for me?”

“It’s just a couple grams,” Owen says, looking amused. “What were you expecting?”

“I thought— I don’t know, I thought I’d just need one mushroom,” Abby admits defensively. When Owen starts to laugh, she frowns. “Well, how was I supposed to know?”

“Oh, god,” Owen says, still giggling. “Fuck, okay. You’re adorable.”

“You’re adorable,” Abby fires back automatically—a product of experiencing one too many of Nora’s comebacks, probably—though it doesn’t exactly have the insult power she’d intended. “Look, just— Shut up. Shut up, alright, how about that.”

Owen manages to stop laughing after a while. Mostly. “Alright,” he says, looking suspiciously like he’s still fighting a grin. “Look, you can do this a few different ways.”

“You don’t just—” Abby gestures vaguely, “—eat them?”

“I mean, yeah, you eat them. You can go ahead and just eat ‘em straight like that. I knew a guy who knew a guy who would make them into chocolate bars. If we had more time…” He trails off, shakes his head. “Anyway, they kind of taste bad, so. Some people take a mortar and pestle to them and put it in a drink or food or something. A lot of people just take the whole ones and put ‘em in, uh. A peanut butter sandwich.”

Abby stares at him. “A peanut butter sandwich,” she echoes warily.

“Yup.”

“Stop making fun of me.”

Owen puts his hands up, laughing. “I’m not, Abs, I swear I’m being totally honest with you from here on out. Last thing you need is to start worrying that I’m lying to you about shit. Like I said, mindset’s everything with this. Peanut butter and shrooms are absolutely a thing.”

“My mindset’s good,” Abby assures him, and she means it. She’s a little flustered by the teasing, maybe, but honestly? Anything that gets Owen to smile is alright in Abby’s book, even if it’s at her own expense. “Think I’m just gonna eat them straight, though.”

Owen shrugs. “Up to you,” he says. “Gonna grab you some water, though. Help you wash ‘em down.” He grins and tugs at Abby’s braid as he stands up.

Abby bats half-heartedly at her hand and looks at the mushrooms on the scale while Owen disappears. “Are you…not going to have any?” she calls out, a little confused.

“Nope,” Owen calls back cheerfully. “You need a babysitter,” he adds, walking back over and sitting down. In response to Abby’s raised eyebrow, he gives a knowing expression. “We don’t know how you’re going to react for your first time. Somebody needs to stay sober and make sure you don’t accidentally fall off the roof if you decide to go up there.”

Abby takes the water from him and snorts. “I could just not go up to the roof,” she points out.

“I’m just saying. Mostly I’m just here to make sure you have a good time, you know? It’s easier for me to do that when I’m sober. That’s it.” Owen watches her a moment.

“And I’m gonna be here the whole time,” he adds, leaning sideways a little so Abby will make eye contact with him.

Abby’s tempted to make some sort of sarcastic comment, but what ends up coming out of her mouth is a quiet, embarrassingly sincere, “Thanks, Owen.”

Owen smiles at her. “Anytime.” He elbows Abby gently. “You ready to do this, or are you gonna keep staring at the shrooms for another few passion-charged hours?”

Abby lets out a huff of a laugh. “Alright, yeah, I’m ready,” she says, and picks up one of the mushrooms, turning it this way and that in her fingers. “So I just…?” she says, miming popping the thing into his mouth.

Owen nods. “Keep in mind that the longer you chew it for, the quicker the onset will be. And then, yeah, just go for it.”

“Go for it,” Abby echoes dryly. She regards the mushroom another few seconds, then pops it into her mouth and starts chewing before she can talk herself out of it.

It’s…alright, it’s awful. Owen was right. The taste is horribly earthy, edged with something vaguely like sunflower seeds, if those seeds were dipped in all the worst-tasting things Abby’s ever had mixed together. She can’t help it; she pulls a face.

Owen laughs because he’s a dick. “How is it?”

Abby squints flips as she reaches for the glass of water. Fuck, it’s dry as all hell and impossible to get down until she takes a few swallows of water. She’d meant to keep chewing, but, god, this is supposed to be a _good_ experience. She’s not subjecting herself to this more than she has to.

“Peanut butter next time,” she rasps when she swallows, feeling a little betrayed, rolling her eyes when Owen dissolves into laughter again. The rest of the mushrooms go down in a pretty similar way, and she can’t say she’s not relieved when she finally finishes them off and downs the remaining water. “Oh my _god_ , it’s so bad. Why’s it so bad.”

“Don’t be a baby,” Owen says helpfully.

Abby flips him off.

“ _You_ didn’t prepare me for that.”

Owen raises his hands defensively. “I said they taste bad!”

“Manny’s cooking tastes bad. That was like eating an atomic bomb.” Abby sits down heavily on the couch. “Never again.”

“Don’t make that decision yet, Abby. Christ, you haven’t even started tripping yet,” Owen says, exasperated. “You didn’t prepare me for how much of a baby you were gonna be.”

“It’s just— It’s a lack of professionalism on your part, really,” Abby continues, smiling slightly when Owen makes a fed-up noise.

Owen tells her it’s likely to take a while for her to start feeling anything, so Abby gets comfortable. She notices she’s able to do that here now, where a few months ago she’d probably still be standing stiffly off to the side. Hell, a few months ago, she wouldn’t have agreed to do this at all.

Abby realizes her body’s starting to feel heavy, a little numb, limbs just a bit harder to lift, like she could sink right through the couch. She’s relaxed, like she’s taken a couple of pills from Mel’s cabinet. It’s nice.

She enjoys that for a while. When she turns to tell Owen about how she’s feeling—lets her head loll to the side on the back of the couch so she can look at Owen, really—Owen’s already looking at her, smiling. Abby can’t help but smile back. “Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” Owen returns, and he looks fond. “How’re you doing?”

“Good,” Abby says. She pauses, considering her own voice. “Sounds are kind of…sounding weird? My voice sounds weird coming out of my mouth,” she tries to explain.

“That’s normal,” Owen assures her, grinning, and, oh. Good. That’s good. Abby wasn’t worried, really, but it was something she probably would’ve worried about if she’d thought about it for much longer.

She remembers Owen had promised to take care of her, and that abruptly fills her with a light, full sort of comfort. Everything’s going to be fine.

“Talk,” she commands, because she likes Owen’s voice like this—she likes Owen’s voice always, but it’s like there’s a buzz behind his throat that makes his timbre all lilted and nice.

Owen laughs, and it’s _wonderful_. “Alright?” he says. “What do you want me to talk about?”

“Anything,” Abby tells him.

And so Owen talks—about work, about Alice, about books he’s read and movies he’s watched; it’s hard for Abby to follow exactly what he’s saying sometimes, but she’s pretty sure she still manages to keep the conversation going.

“And maybe tonight after you come down we can go for a swim or something,” Owen’s saying. The buzz in his words has filtered out into something smoother, gentler.

The sky’s turned red; Abby can’t remember precisely when that happened, but there are large streaks across the sky in all sorts of colors.

It takes a moment to remember what they were talking about. “Swimming,” she echoes abruptly. The word rings out loud, and she winces. “Yeah, we can do that,” she adds, quieter.

“It’s a really nice day,” Owen explains, and that’s enough to open up an entirely new world for Abby.

Getting up takes some effort; her body’s still heavy, still resists movement, but once she’s up and moving, everything gets a lot easier.

She wanders towards the window, has to stop a few times to touch various pieces of furniture—things feel different too, she’s starting to realize, and the walls are breathing—and then she has to struggle to focus, to save those observations for later in favor of finding out exactly how nice it is outside. She’d noticed it was a clear day earlier, but, Christ, it’s _beautiful_ out the window.

Colors seem so much brighter now, like someone turned up the saturation on the world. It’s evident inside, everything a little sharper and fuller, but looking out the window is nearly breathtaking. The city is practically _glowing_ , buildings towering and humming with life within, the ocean in the distance stretching out into infinity.

After a while of admiration, Abby decides the view is incredible, but it could be better. The window’s like a barrier between her and the rest of the world; she hyper-fixates on fingerprints and smudges on the glass until she finally jerks away, turning to look for Owen, who’s still on the couch.

“Owen,” she says urgently.

Owen seems to take a hundred years to turn and look at Abby, like he doesn’t understand the urgency of this situation. “Yeah?”

“I need to go upstairs.” She pauses. “ _We_ need to go upstairs. Right now.”

Owen smiles. “What, you want to go up to the roof?”

“Yes,” Abby says, and she’s aware she sounds impatient, desperate, but suddenly nothing’s ever felt more important. She feels like—god, she feels like she’s experiencing something that needs to be puzzled out. Like she’s looking for a door that’ll throw the trip wide open, let her understand some grand, Important Thing.

“Owen, _please_.”

“Okay, okay,” Owen says, getting to his feet. But, Christ, he’s so _slow_ about it—Abby finally grabs his hand and starts tugging him along out of the outlook room and up to the stairs to the roof. Owen makes a noise and looks at her, surprised, but Abby barely pays attention.

It’s not until she feels the cold concrete through her socks that she realizes she doesn’t have shoes. Or her jacket. Owen managed to slip on a pair of sneakers on the way out, but they both shiver for a moment just past the now-closed door to the roof. The wind feels indescribable on her skin, biting and gentle all at once, a velvet pocket knife.

She’s starting to realize that she could fixate on anything right now, anything at all, the huge expanse of the universe or the smallest blade of grass, and that’s—that’s overwhelming, actually, the idea that she could lose herself like that.

She takes in a breath to try to pull herself together, lets it out in a rush of air that sounds like a whimper, and suddenly Owen’s there, his hand on Abby’s shoulder, a pause before Owen presses against her more fully, like they’re huddling for warmth. She should be pulling away, she thinks, but, god, it feels good. It’s the only thing that feels good.

“You okay?” Owen asks. “Is this okay?”

The spiraling thoughts stop, dissipate completely. The physical contact grounds her, somehow, reminds her what’s real and what’s important. “I’m okay,” Abby says, a little hesitant, because she doesn’t want it not to be true. But seconds pass and she’s still fine, not scattering away with the wind, with her thoughts. She’s on a rooftop, in Seattle, with her ex.

With her friend.

With her—something.

She shakes it off, remembers the point of this, finally, the desire to see the city with nothing between her and it, and she grasps clumsily for Owen’s hand and pulls him along towards the edge of the building. There’s a concrete barrier along the edge of the roof, and Abby leans against it. Looks out.

“Oh,” she breathes.

Because the city—maybe she’s never noticed this before, but the city is alive, really alive, not the empty concrete nothing she’d so often dismissed it as being. The high makes buildings sway, pulse, breathe; sounds rise up from the streets and mingle together into symphony, the ocean rushing, all the colors colliding like fireworks.

“It’s amazing,” she breathes, grinning stupidly and not caring in the slightest, delighted when Owen grins back.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks.

Abby opens her mouth to respond and pauses, trying to figure out exactly how to say it, and realizes she can’t. “I don’t— I don’t have enough mouths to say all the things I’m thinking,” she tries to explain, words stilted, brow furrowed, and Owen laughs.

She’s a little disappointed that she can’t share this with Owen. She’s grateful to have someone watching out for her, but she wants Owen to see the colors and feel like she’s a flawlessly integrated part of the universe and all the admittedly clichéd shit she can’t help but think of and feel.

It’s incredible. It’s the high, she knows, but it’s _incredible_ , and there’s a connection here she can’t deny.

Everything’s abruptly too much and not enough. The rush of thoughts and feelings hits her like a tangible thing, makes her stumble. She feels like she could topple forward and fall forever.

Owen’s fingers curl into the back of Abby’s shirt, and he uses the grip to pull her back slowly, gently. Abby realizes she was gripping at the concrete barrier hard enough to scrape up her hands. “You’re okay,” Owen says. “You’re fine.”

“I don’t want to fall,” Abby says breathlessly, terrified.

“You won’t. I’ve got you.”

“I don’t want—”

“Abby,” Owen says, and he pulls Abby into his arms, the warm weight of him pulsing through Abby’s clothes and heating her to the core. “Look. _Look_. We’re fine, right?”

“Right,” Abby says slowly, not quite sure if she believes it.

“Look,” Owen tells her again, and she does, and—and— Okay. Okay. She feels grounded, is aware of her feet on the concrete and how solid it is, how steady she is standing there. She’s okay. They’re okay.

“Oh,” Abby says.

Owen smiles, lets out a breath. “There we go. See?”

“I see.”

“Okay. Okay, good.”

They’re quiet for a moment, leaned against each other, Owen’s arms around her, and Abby feels the wind on her face and feels very small.

“I want to be a part of this,” she says nonsensically, and she _knows_ , she knows it doesn’t make sense, doesn’t know how to find the right words, but it’s like she’s right on the cusp of understanding something.

“Part of this?” Owen echoes distractedly, and he’s pulling Abby back towards the door, because Abby’s shivering pathetically now.

“Part of— You. Them.” She gestures vaguely, pauses, thinking. “Here,” she decides on.

Owen gets her indoors, pulls the door shut with finality. Warmth washes over them, makes Abby’s eyes go heavy immediately. Emotions are coming in waves now; they feel like physical things, and it’s almost too much, the feelings and the sounds and the sights together. She’s holding on to Owen’s shirt for dear life like it’s the only thing that can keep her from getting too far into her own head.

Owen is looking at her. “Here,” he says.

Abby blinks slowly. Nods. “Yeah.”

“Oh,” Owen says, and he sounds off, and that’s—that’s not what Abby wanted at all, this is _terrible_ , she wants to fix it for Owen but she doesn’t know how to.

“I’m sorry,” Abby blurts out. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“God, Abby, no, don’t _apologize_ —”

“I don’t know what to do,” Abby says desperately, and Owen lets out this broken, hollow little laugh that makes Abby ache.

What she does, in the end, is do the only thing that’s felt good since she started the fucking trip: she grabs Owen and pulls him close.

She doesn’t remember when they start kissing.

This isn’t new (except it is, a hundred thousand new sensations brought on by the high that Abby wants to spend ages exploring). They’ve done this before, plenty of times, just— Not like this. Not since they split up, not since Mel, and so Owen’s mouth isn’t new, Owen’s hands aren’t new, Owen’s noises aren’t new, because they’ve done this before.

They’ve done this before, except never like this.

Not when they’re both soft and gentle and searching, when Abby has nothing occupying her heart, when Owen’s not trying to open her up, when there’s no blood and kisses aren’t leaving bruises.

And so it’s great, it’s the best thing, but it feels _wrong_ , feels bad, a spark of guilt jolting up Abby’s spine and making her break away, eyes wide, a string of apologies on her lips. Owen looks soft, lips parted, smiling, and Abby wants this so bad she aches with it, but this is a part of Owen that doesn’t belong to her.

But then Owen raises an eyebrow and gives her a questioning look. “Why’d you stop?” he asks, and, oh.

Again, she feels like she’s on the cusp of understanding something.

“I…didn’t think you wanted to,” Abby says, but it comes out like a question, like confusion. Nothing makes sense anymore.

Owen looks genuinely baffled. “Because of Mel?”

Abby’s not completely sure.

Owen looks at her for a long moment and then sighs. “C’mon, come inside,” he says, and he reaches out and tugs Abby towards the penthouse by her belt loops, and Abby doesn’t flinch away.

* * *

Things feel less overwhelming back in the aquarium. Abby settles back on the couch and tries not to look at Owen looking at her. She feels like she’s on the Ferris wheel again, climbing up to a jump. Not afraid, but anxious. Anticipatory. Maybe a vague sense of unease before the swooping, inevitable fall.

Owen sits down next to her, fixing her with an incredibly weighted expression. Abby tries not to squirm as the silent seconds stretch on. Finally, Owen clears his throat.

“I’m an idiot.”

That’s…not exactly what Abby was expecting.

Owen gives her a look. “You’re also an idiot.”

Ah. There it is.

“Sorry,” Abby says agreeably. The anxiety is making a real effort to press through, but it’s warm in the aquarium and the couch is comfortable and Owen has the ability to calm her down like nothing else, even in these circumstances. The high rolls gently in the background like an accomplice to everything she’s feeling.

It’s quiet again for a moment. When Owen speaks, it’s firm and honest, and it drops into the center of Abby’s chest and shatters like a crash test car. Like a glass jar full of mushrooms. “I miss you.”

Abby stares. “You— What?”

“I miss you,” Owen repeats. “Not just—not just sometimes or when Mel’s away. All the time.”

“Oh,” Abby says, because what else can she say?

"You don’t have to live like that. Not anymore. Trust me. Just—trust me, that’s all I’m asking.”

And that’s all Owen’s ever really asked of her. Like it isn’t the hardest goddamn thing in the world.

She wants to trust Owen. It’s just that all her instincts, every self-preservation tactic she’s ever had to learn and learn and relearn is telling her to run, always, all the time. One foot out the door of every room she’s ever been in. The wild, primal thing in her says _run_ , says _if anyone tries to stop you, cut them down_.

But she wants to trust Owen. She hasn’t wanted to trust anyone in a long, long time.

And maybe it’s as simple as that.

“Okay,” Abby says. It comes out hoarse. Owen looks at her, surprised, and Abby repeats it. “Okay. I’m gonna trust you. I’m—gonna try.” She can do that. She thinks she can do that.

She thinks she understands now—she’s allowed to have this. She’s allowed to have this. She just needs to let herself take it.

Owen looks relieved. “Good,” he says, “good,” and a warm feeling builds in Abby’s chest and pulses outwards. The high takes every emotion and cranks it up to eleven,

Abby gets that now, and it’s awful when she feels bad, it’s terrifying, but when she feels good?

It’s like being lighter than air. Like being complete. She wants to live in this forever. Wants to chase the feeling.

“Can I kiss you again?” she asks.

Owen looks hopelessly fond. “You’re cute,” he says, reaching to pull on Abby’s braid.

Abby lets out a huff of air as she tries to defend herself. Owen manages to give the braid a tug anyway. “Is that a yes or no?” she presses, maybe sulking a little bit.

“C’mere,” Owen says, and his hands are gentle and soft as he presses against the small of Abby’s back and draws her in.

Abby loses track of time like that, holding Owen, exploring in a way she hasn’t dared to let herself for a long time—gentle hands, a slow wandering, taking the time to familiarize herself with the solid press of his body.

It’s the best thing. She’s pretty sure she could do this for hours. She’s not fully convinced she hasn’t been doing it for hours when she breaks away to really look at Owen, at how red and flushed his cheeks are now.

“Feeling okay?” he asks, and Abby nods.

“Yeah. I feel really good. Feel like I’m supposed to be here,” she admits.

* * *

She doesn’t remember falling asleep, but she must—lying on the couch half on top of Owen, kissing and talking and watching the walls breathe until the sun dips low behind the buildings out the window.

She wakes and shifts, struggling to sit up, alone on the couch. “Owen?” she calls out. She feels more and less aware at the same time. Feels like she’s gone through some sort of catharsis. When she looks at the walls, they stay perfectly still.

“You slept through the comedown,” Owen says from the doorway. Abby shifts to look at him over the back of the couch. “You’re lucky. A lot of people don’t like it.”

“So it’s over?” Abby asks, rubbing her eyes, trying to wake herself up.

Owen makes his way over, carrying two mugs. “Should be, by now,” he says, glancing at the clock and handing off one of the mugs. “You feel normal?”

Abby drinks from it without even looking into it. It’s coffee, exactly the way she likes it. She wonders when that happened, when Owen learned it. “I feel— I don’t know, like I understand things better,” she decides.

Owen leans against the back of the couch. “You remember much?”

Abby pulls a face, considering it. “The important stuff at least,” she says.

Owen looks at her. “Yeah?” he says carefully.

“I trust you,” Abby says, and she watches Owen’s body language go lax in relief. “And I’m wanted here.”

Owen smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “You are.” He nudges Abby aside, climbing over the back of the couch to sit, nearly spilling his coffee and then Abby’s as he gets settled.

“You thought you were gonna fall off the roof,” he adds, grinning broadly like an asshole, and Abby groans and grabs the blanket draped over the armrest to give herself something to hide her face in.

“You’re a dick.” Still, Owen reaches out and tugs at Abby until she yields, shifts to lean against Owen. She feels Owen press a kiss against her temple, sweet as can be, and she’s okay. She’s good.

The trip was an experience. She decides it was a good one, really, in the end—it helped her work shit out, understand that she’s allowed to be here, allowed to settle here, allowed to be happy. And that’s a relief, and a surprise, and something that’s going to take some time to adapt herself to completely.

But she’s wanted here, and she’s learning to trust.

She’s learning to stay.

Abby leans back against Owen with a content sigh and shuts her eyes, enjoying the warmth of the penthouse and the music still coming in through the television speakers and Owen’s closeness.

And then Owen starts to laugh, low and close to her ear, and she frowns warily. “What?”

Owen tries to stop giggling long enough to speak. “I’m just— You thought you were gonna fall. That fucking barrier comes up to your waist. You’d have had to climb up and then take a running leap to avoid the balcony that’d be like ten feet below you.”

“Owen, I swear to god, if you tell anyone—”

“I’m telling everyone.”


End file.
